To Understand
by LadyJea
Summary: Elfstan Fairbairn's reflections on his Grandfather, Samwise Gamgee


Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or ideas set forth by the Great Master Tolkien. I only aspire to discover what he did not reveal.

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To Understand

By LadyJea

Every spring, when the Mallorn tree bloomed in the Party Field, my mother would take us to visit Grandfather and Grandmother. We would stay for a week, and my siblings and I would explore the infinite rooms of Bag End, where the adults spoiled us rotten, fed us far too many sweets, and every evening told us wonderful stories from the great Red Book. As a young child I did not truly connect my grandfather with any of those lofty tales of adventure in the world of the Big Folk. I also did not truly see the pain that flashed briefly in his eyes as he skipped over certain pages. As much as we all begged to hear the words set in ink on those leaves, he never told us. And as children you never understand what adults mean when they say that some things are too terrible for a child to hear, because a child has no concept of anything incongruent with his safe and insulated world of childhood.

I was halfway through my tweens when my uncle came one day, the day after Midsummer's Day, just weeks following the spring ritual, and told us that Grandmother was dead. We went again to Bag End, but there was no laughter, or sweets, or stories. We stayed only for a few days, except for Mother. She did not come home for nearly two weeks more. I heard her and Father talking one night, about Grandfather "really going." Father did not think he really would leave, but Mother said she knew in her heart he would. At the time I did not know what they meant.

The seasons changed, and near the end of September Grandfather came to us at Westmarch. He and Mother stayed up all night talking. I stayed up, too, never quite able to distinguish their words from my room down the hall. At dawn they went outside, and I followed. I watched in puzzlement as they saddled ponies and prepared to ride. That was when my father caught me. To my surprise, instead of sending me back inside with a scolding, he saddled two more ponies and we rode behind them for a while as the sun rose and the fog dissipated. 

I had begun to nod off, seated beside my father, when he prodded me awake. We had reached the border of the Shire in the Hills, the Towers stood not far in the distance. I could smell the faintest hint of sea salt on the air, and the fog was still heavy here. To my astonishment, Big Folk on large horses, wearing somber cloaks, slid from the shadows and fog as though they were of the very same substance and not real at all. They flanked Mother and Grandfather, seated tall and proud like the stories in the Red Book. 

As they rode into the distance I suddenly realized that it was not merely stories I had been told. My Grandfather was no simple gardener, or even merely a respected mayor. He was a legend, a hero. Bilbo and Frodo Baggins had really lived, and my Grandfather followed their path to the sea, escorted by Rangers of the Wild, to meet elves and wizards and kings.

Mother returned later that day, leading a pony with no rider. She carried the Red Book with her. I later read all of those secret pages, and I finally understood why we had never been told certain accounts. I often watch Mother, older now, as she reads the stories to _my_ children, always turning past certain pages with just a flicker of pain in her eyes, as she is begged to reveal their words by many innocent voices. I long to show them the image of my Grandfather as I had last seen him. I want them to understand what I understood that day. They will have to wait, until they too read the entire story. Then they will know, but only in part, for I can never show them what I have seen, what Mother has seen, what Grandfather had seen. A certain knowledge will pass away with me when I at last go from this life to the next. The thought saddens me. But I will forever hold onto that image, shrouded then by fog and now by time. My children will know, because I will tell them. And they will tell their children, and so it will become a true legend. Will that take away from the honor of it all? Perhaps. But at least they will hear of him, and maybe in their minds he will look as he does in mine. That is the best I can do.


End file.
